


Ovation

by kalliel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dubious Consent, Episode: s11e15 Beyond the Mat, Flash Fic, Hellhounds, M/M, Season/Series 11, sort of disturbingly dispassionate sex, weird/problematic relationship to sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-06
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-07-29 17:32:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7693246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalliel/pseuds/kalliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One last semi-decent rimjob before Gunner Lawless hits a very different road.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ovation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Emmatheslayer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emmatheslayer/gifts).



"Performance anxiety?" Gunner asks. 

Apparently he's got a thing for doorways; he gets halfway through then pulls Dean after him--and that really hadn't been a part of Dean's plan. Not that he'd had much of one, but what else was new. Dean feels the hit higher on his spine than seems advisable, cheap wood denting like a sponge behind him. Gunner's got his whole arm locked across Dean's chest, and Dean knows Gunner's all ears on his wild fucking heartbeat.

Performance anxiety his ass. Dean can hear the hellhounds just as sure as Gunner can. 

Dean knows they're not for him, not this time; but there's not a vein in his body that believes they won't make an exception. He knows they miss him.

"My brother's gonna kill your demon pal," says Dean. He can't seem to make himself breathe like a normal motherfucker, but rambling usually helps with that. And him to Gunner, he's got plenty of ramble to go. "It's over."

 "Good. I hope he saves the kid," Gunner says, earnestly. "Are you here to do me?"

Dean laughs.

He wishes it were that simple. He wishes he had that drive--to put a bullet in the man before him, to feel betrayed. To feel like hero worship's all a racket, and that at the end of the day the best man in a big gold belt is just another sadsack piece of shit, slinging demon deals. But Dean's been down that road, and the only place it's led is here.

He's pinned against a doorframe and the hounds are getting louder.

"I can't kill you," Dean says. And he can't--he really can't. Because Dean needs to make it out of this alive, needs to keep trudging, cartwheeling, crawling forward, because Sam, because Cas, because the world's still spinning and because he can't leave Sam alone. If Dean draws his line at Gunner, then he ends up a far cry from the right side of it. And he promised Sam he wasn't gonna think like that anymore. 

And this isn't even about Gunner at all; Dean's only here because they weren't sure where the demon was gonna be. Apparently Sam threw snake eyes with that one.

But hey, maybe not.

 "Motherf--" Dean gasps, as Gunner sinks weight into the hold. Dean's vision blanches, bone deserting him, every bone but his spine, which is all too solid. Too brittle. Demons are strong, but most of them don't understand the human body as well as they should; too new to their vessels. This is the first time in a long time Dean's gone head to head with someone who knew how to win.

It's not a good feeling.

"You know I'm a dead man walking. There'd be no blood on your hands, if you did."

"Oh, you're late for that, trust me," Dean coughs. Thinks about drawing lines again. Sam might have chosen to forget, but Dean killed 27 people last year--and that's people, not monsters; not even meatsuits. And Dean happens to know that's nine times the number of careers Gunner's ended in the ring. Of course, all this seems stupid, given the givens, given Gunner's clear upper hand here; and part of Dean wants Gunner to just get it over with and rip his spine out. Feed him to the dogs, buy himself some kind of time.

The other part of Dean doesn't want to be here when the dogs come, period.

But Gunner's not gonna kill him, because he may be an opportunist (even if he's a fucking lousy one--one soul for two weeks of stardom? seriously?), and a dirtbag, and maybe a killer--this depends on how much of Sam's a savior; whether he saves 'the kid' or not--but he's a decent guy. And sure, maybe 'not gonna kill him' is a low bar for decent, but sometimes you're Dean Winchester and you learned a long time ago you really need to grade on a curve. He's decent, everyone's decent, they're all decent, and no one deserves what's coming next. No one deserves Hell.

Then Gunner trades the door for the bed, belt sibilant against denim when he shucks it like a skin. He has change in his pocket, and it jangles. Dean thinks twice about Gunner's decency.

But Dean figures, he flew right past the whole does-he-want-it/does-he-not, is-it-love/is-it-not dilemma decades ago. Maybe he wants Gunner, and maybe he wants him now; maybe he doesn't. Maybe this sucks. But Dean also knows himself, and he never minds sex. Not really. At least, it's easier if you just take it for what it is and let your brain shut up about it.

Dean cracks his neck and he drops his fucking pants.

He gestures coyly for Gunner, and he barks _Get the fuck over here._ The disjuncture makes Gunner smile. Dean knows his shit. Top Notch isn't just a fight: It's acting. It's spectacle. It's anomaly.

"You know, when I was eleven," Dean pants, as his hand passes up the Gideon Bible and keeps searching for lube. Gunner sucks his neck, tongue hot and lips bristly. "This is not how I imagined ending up with you."

"When you were eleven, this isn't how I imagined ending up, period," Gunner replies, and throws a hand over Dean's mouth. "Stop talking about kids. That's fucked up, and we have a time limit. We don't have time for that shit."

 "Then stop talking about about hellhounds!" Dean counters, but it's lost to callus and chalky palm. Dean smacks him with the flaccid bottle of lube.

 "Condoms?" Dean asks, swallowing the dryness of his mouth, the taste of the ring. Gunner gives him a look.

 "Jesus, I'm aware. Time limit!" Dean rolls his eyes. "I can hear them too. Don't give me that last-thirty-seconds-on-Earth shit. I got you covered."

Because at some point, this became a favor. No one's killing anyone; they've all changed their minds. This is one last semi-decent rimjob before Gunner Lawless hits a very different road. Fucking great. But if Dean didn't have a plan before, it's not like this is a worse one.

Dean hopes Sam's got the rest of this under better control.

Rubbers on and lube in hand, Dean kicks Gunner off and tells him, _Brace yourself._

The whole thing makes him feel younger than he is; it's familiar the way memory lane in general is familiar; the way this whole trip has been. It takes him back to when he remembered every fieldstrip, paid attention to every movement. When he actually thought about blowjobs, and fucking ass--all broke down into a patter of tiny critical motions and nuances. He doesn't think much about any of that now; these are all muscles and he knows what to do with them.

He focuses less on doing and more on feeling. Friction--that pleasurable spark. The way sweat blossoms on his arms, makes pools beneath his hands on Gunner's back. The way his lungs and his dick match strides, and a crackle lances up his back, buries itself under his shoulder blade.

As long as there's orgasm involved, it really doesn't fucking matter. But jesus christ, it sounds like they're in the eye of a hurricane of hellhounds. It's so loud.

Faster. Deeper. 

Dean feels Gunner's ass writhe and tense beneath him and he hears the encroaching howling of dogs, and they sound so legion, they sound so close, that Dean can't honestly believe that the whole pack's here for Gunner Lawless, one-time offender, demon-deal dime a dozen.

 "Sorry," Dean rasps, but then he comes, and if the word's not lost the sentiment sure is. Slowly, slowly, like a bent rotor, Dean pulls out. Gunner shudders beneath him, cock waggling fat and purple. Just to that point where he doesn't care what kind of names Dean's thinking about him so long as he gets off in the next twelve nanoseconds. Then it's done.

"See, you hardly even needed my help," Dean chuckles, finding the bed and planting his face in it. Were it softer, maybe it'd plug his ears, stop the howling.

 "You know, you're a good dude, Gunner," Dean says, over the din. "You are."

 "Ha! I'm a lying piece of shit."

"That too. But you're a decent piece of shit, you know?"

"Yeah. I could get on board with that."

"Good."

"Are you disappointed?"

"Please. If that's a prizefight, you don't rank. Believe me, I know disappointment."

"Why can you hear them? No one else could. Because I'd hear them sometimes, you know. Lone bitch on recon, or one of the little overeager ones. But no one else did. Figured this was a fly solo kind of deal."

 Dean shrugs, doesn't answer. "Not to rain on your listening party, but this is gonna hurt like hell."

 "You think I haven't hurt like hell before?"

"Not like this."

But Gunner says, "Kid, I sold my soul a long time ago. I been under the knife ten years already; all this is is aftermath. You know what those dogs sound like to me?"

"Uh, Hell's bells?" Dean guesses. And God, he really doesn't want to put his pants back on.

"Standing ovation," says Gunner.

Standing ovation. Full ring, raving crowd--the tight screech of seven hundred people hoping they see blood. Hoping for a spectacle. There are Hellhounds at his door, and to Gunner Lawless it's all the same as it ever was.

 "Get out of here," Gunner orders. "They're not here for you."

They are. Dean's sure now. They always are, and they always will be. But, well, Dean has a gun, and there's fresher blood on the ground. He's gonna be fine. 

This time.

"Standing ovation," Dean reminds him.

"Damn straight."

Pants on, gun cocked. Back door ready. And Gunner, naked as fuck, orgasm-cozy, hellhounds cheering him on like it's primetime.

They're part of a strange, bloody fucking world, the two of them, Dean thinks. But hey, keep grinding, right? If Dean can't quite get a handle on any of the rest of this, that much he's here for.

Keep grinding. Listen to the dogs roar your name.

Listen well.


End file.
